


Atonement

by charlie4short



Series: Dean's Hell [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blind Dean Winchester, Canon Related, Comfort/Angst, Dean Whump, Dean in Hell, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hell Fic, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Oral Sex, Other, Porn With Plot, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-28 00:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13260240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlie4short/pseuds/charlie4short
Summary: Sam knows what his brother has done for him, knows that Dean has always valued Sam above himself.  Sam has, at times, taken that for granted, or worse still, used it to manipulate his big brother.  When guilt overwhelms him, what will Sam do to atone?Set between seasons 3 and 4





	1. Prequel: Sam's POV

**Author's Note:**

  * For [metarachel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/metarachel/gifts), [genevra1676](https://archiveofourown.org/users/genevra1676/gifts).



> This is my first attempt at Wincest, and the story that became the first chapter took over my brain until I was able to get it into print. What followed was the backstory, with kidnapping, psychological torture, and Dean whump, including rape. Gotta be honest: the whole thing took me by surprise.
> 
> Inspired by MetaRachel's "The Rising" and "Bone Eater", along with all of the many comments, observations, and suggestions I've been getting from readers, particularly Genevra1676. Thank you, guys, for your feedback!
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story.

 

“No!”  I crushed Dean's wrists into the wall above his head, immobilizing them.  “You don’t get to touch.  You don’t get to _see_.”

 “ _Please_.  I want to.”

 I’d never heard my big brother sound so vulnerable.

“God dammit!”  I slammed the heel of my palm into the cinder block beside his head with enough force to make him flinch.  “If there is one single person in this world that you don’t owe _anything_ to, it’s _me_!”  I tipped my head back, growling in frustration.  “Physically I am the exact opposite of your type in every way possible.  I don’t need you touching me, pretending that what you’re feeling turns you on, when we both know it’s a goddamn lie!”

Pinning his arms with one hand, I closed my eyes, letting the fingers of the other trail down his side.

His skin was so unbelievably soft, stretched tightly over hard muscle and too-prominent ribs.   

" _Please_ ," he whispered, the desperation in that one word reverberating all the way down my spine.

I could feel him trembling, and I rested my forehead against the wall, lips brushing his ear.

“When you told me that no woman had ever touched you like this --” I slid the pads of my fingers over the smooth skin of his belly, hunger spiking at the sharp inhale it elicited from him “ -- that they just let you do all the work, it made me angry, Dean.”  My fingers traced upwards, skimming over the arc of one perfectly sculpted pectoral muscle.  “You should _always_ be touched like this.”  I could taste the huskiness in my voice.  “Worshiped.”  I pinched his nipple, twisting it gently, and heard his breath catch in his throat.  “Cherished.”  Ducking my head, I allowed my teeth to replace my fingertips, biting gently while my tongue teased at the erect nub.

He moaned, and I nearly fell against him as the sound drained the strength from my legs.

With an effort of will I straightened, pressing him to the wall with my body, our mouths so close that I could taste the faint tickle of his breath on my lips.  

I wished I could trust him to keep his hands where they were, wanting nothing more than to have both of my own free to do exactly as I’d said: Cherish him.   _Worship_ him.

Instead I switched, now running the flat of my right palm down the underside of his arm, starting at his wrist, slicking down, feeling him tremble as my nails scraped gently through the sweat-damp hair at his armpit, biting my lip at his stuttered breath when the ball of my thumb toyed with his nipple.

“Anyone who is lucky enough to be allowed to see you naked, to have a chance to _touch_ you -- “  the sensation in my chest threatened to drown me, and I paused to swallow.  “If that person isn’t nearly insane with the need to explore you, to use their hands and mouth to appreciate how _beautiful_ you are --”  I dropped my head, flattening my tongue to lave his chest from nipple to armpit, stopping to suckle that sensitive flesh with its silken fur, his harsh groan and the thrust of his pelvis making my  head spin.

I forced my mouth back to his, pressing my forehead to the upper edge of his blindfold.   

“Not just your body, Dean: _You_.”  I shifted until our hips were square with one another, leaning into him, feeling his hardness and heat through our layers of denim.  “I'm touching you,” and my voice was a hoarse whisper as I ground against him slowly, fingers spread to caress his ribs, “to show you how fucking _amazing_ you are.”

“I’m not --”

I took his mouth, tongue invading as soon as our lips touched, forcing those words, his critical, self-abusive _mantra_ , to dissolve into another moan.

So much desperate hunger.

So much pain.

I pulled his wrists away from the wall, tucking his hands behind his hips.  ‘Please.  Keep them there,” I breathed into his mouth, sucking his lower lip into my own, teasing it with my tongue, a silent promise of a thorough reward if he would, just this _one_ time, obey me.

His body trembled against mine.

“This is the most selfish thing I have ever done,” I confessed, breath hot along his ear, tongue flicking out to trace that delicate curve, teeth nipping gently at the tender skin of his neck.  “I'm not...You don’t need to touch me, or tell me you love me --”

“I _do_ love you,” and the words were nearly a sob.

“-- or make me feel attractive, or make me cum.”  My lips trailed along the edge of his jaw, loving the stark rigidity, the rugged abrasion of stubble on my bruised lips.  “I owe you so much --” it was my turn to choke back a sob “ -- and you are just broken enough, just _desperate_ enough, to finally let me show you.”   

" _Please_.  You don't have to --"

"Shhhh."  I lapped the words from his mouth, replacing them with my own.  "I do.  Please, let me, just this once, show you how I see you."

He trembled visibly under the strain of acquiescence.

In our isolation I deified him with my mouth: the strong shoulders that had both carried and consoled me, the broad chest that had shielded me from harm, the lean stomach that had endured hunger so that I wouldn’t have to.

Suddenly I was on my knees.  My fingers, clumsy with the strength of my overwhelming need, groped inelegantly at his belt.  “I’m not doing this for _you_.”  I paused in my efforts to bare him, looking up at the man who had always been my hero.  I shuddered at the vision he presented, head hanging against his naked and panting chest, the bandages that I had so carefully wrapped around his eyes lying undisturbed against his skin.

More humbling was the realization that he had kept his hands where I had placed them.

His uncharacteristic submission, his demonstration of unqualified _trust_ , spiked a devastating greed in my loins.  His button and zipper gave way to my rapacious fumbling, and I curled my fingers into denim and soft cotton.  “I need to…” I struggled to sculpt the molten dregs of my entire life into a solid form, one that I could give voice to.  “I need to gift you this. To make your muscles tense, hear you breath catch, taste your moans.  I need to know that for just a little while, I can make you forget your pain and guilt and fear and anger, all of the weight that you force yourself to carry --" Tears throttled me, and I pulled in a shaking breath.  "I need to take all of that and just leave you --”  I slid the cloth down his hips, closing my eyes against the deep contraction in my own groin as the unmistakable musk of his arousal flooded me “-- _pleasure_.”  My mouth was wet, yet my voice was raw.

My palms curled over the sharp jut of his hips as I pulled him into me, swallowing his engorged heat down to the root, and his startled cry was so sharp, it might have been pained.

I pulled back, releasing him.  “Imagine that I am someone else, Dean. One of the girls you slept with in high school.  A waitress, or a stripper.  Whoever you remember, whoever you dream about.”  I wrapped my mouth around him, driving deep, pulling back hard; once, then again. 

He thrust into me, “ _O-ooh, God_!”  stuttering from his full lips.

“Please, just let me give you this.  For _me_.” 

Knowing he _could_ never, _would_ never deny me, I devoured him.  Ferocious in my need to atone, I bruised my lips against the fingers I had wrapped around the base of his cock, desperate to pull his pain and his shame out of him, as if I could suck the blackness away like drawing venom from a wound, allow light and love and bliss to explode out from his core and expand, filling him.

Every held breath, every involuntary groan, the trembling in his abdomen, the curl of his body towards me or arch away, every perceptible indication of pleasure struck like a lash along my core, the electric ecstasy of it goading me on.  My free hand slid between his thighs, and I moaned to find his testicles pulled tight against his shaft, his moment of perfect bliss so close -- 

“ _Sammy_!”  His breathless euphoria lanced through me, my own echoing rapture so immediate, intense, and unexpected that it momentarily blinded me.

His fingers curled into my hair, the tight grip sending a shiver of pleasure down my spine that grounded me, pulling me back to our reality, to Dean holding me tightly as he jerked helplessly against me, exploding into my throat, nearly convulsing with the force of it.  

He slid down the wall, limbs shaking, and I went with him as far as I could before allowing him to pull from my mouth with a wet pop.  I slid my arms around him, holding him as his body tensed, shuddering, breath locked in exquisite aftershocks of delectation; then fell limp with air panting in and out of his lungs, only to repeat the process seconds later.

Eventually his tremors ceased and he molded himself to me,  skin cooling slowly, reminding me absurdly of the Impala’s powerful engine ticking contentedly after a run down an open highway.

I held him, rocking us gently.

His respirations finally settled, breaths deep and even, and I suspected that he had fallen asleep.  I burrowed my face into thick hair redolent with exertion, inhaling the scent of him, startling badly when his low chuckle vibrated through me. 

“Dean?” 

“Jesus, Sam."  His exhale was a blissed-out hum.  "That was incredible.”  He reached up to tug the blindfold down before nuzzling back into my neck.  “If I hadn’t been blind before, I sure would be now." He shivered, one stray aftershock sparking through him.  "Damn, that was intense.”

I smiled, fingertips turning lazy circles against the intoxicating curve of his hip just to feel the skin there pebble with goose-flesh at my touch.  “Who did you think about?”

He pushed himself up with obvious difficulty.

His eyes were green fire, igniting my soul.

“You, Sammy.  No one but you.”


	2. Back To The Beginning: Dean's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean are obviously in a bit of a situation: Dean is blind, and Sam just practically forced his brother to submit to a blow job. So, what happened? How did they get there? Well, it started similarly to how it ended: with Dean gettin' his freak on....

* * *

 

 

I’d been having a great night.

Left Sam hunched over his laptop and took a cab to a strip joint. One of the dancers latched onto me pretty much the second I walked through the door. Whenever she wasn’t on stage, she was rubbing up against me, mouth on my neck, hand on my thigh.  Or higher.  “We don’t get too many guys like you in here,” and even though I’d  heard that plenty of times before, it kept me hard and hopeful until her shift ended.  The place was open from noon 'til two a.m., which meant she got to leave at ten.  Damned good thing, too, because with what she was doing to me under the table, I came close to busting in my jeans more than once.

She took me home and fucked the hell out of me.  

 

* * *

 

 

I’ll back up, ‘cause the details are worth recounting.

She told me which car was hers, asked me to wait next to it while she changed.  Came out in Levis and a white v-neck t-shirt with a flannel open over it, make-up gone, hair brushed out, looking as innocent as cherry pie.

Jesus Christ, it was hot.

I was leaning up against her car, and I straightened when I saw her.  She came right up to me, wrapped her hands around the back of my neck, and practically choked me with her tongue.  She had her body pressed up against me so hard it pinned me to the car, and she was the perfect mix of soft and firm, tight muscle with just the right amount of extra padding.  

And that ass….It was a thing of beauty, the kind that drove men to make bad decisions.

She finally let go of my mouth and came up for air, and surprised me by asking me to drive.  I shoulda known she was planning something, but I wasn’t really thinking much at that point.  We got settled, I got onto the road, and the next thing I knew, she had my dick in her  hand. 

It was like magic.

She asked how I felt about road head.  The smart thing to do would’ve been to say, “How do you feel about me wrecking your car?”, but like I said: not really thinking at that point.  I mean, I was already slick with pre-cum, and the way she moaned when she felt that only added to the mess.  Needless to say, when her hand started sliding over me, my brain left the building.  

Her mouth was hot, wet, and very skilled.  If I hadn’t logged so many hours behind the wheel of a car, I probably would have gone right into the ditch as soon as soon as she touched her tongue to my cock.

She knew exactly what she was doing, changing her pace and pressure just enough to keep me on edge all the way to her apartment.  She’d switch out for her hand whenever she needed to tell me to turn or whatever, but between her spit and my pre-cum, the difference wasn't enough to let me come down.

By the time she directed me into her parking space, I was wound so tight I was almost ready to beg her to finish me off.  And I don't beg.  Ever.

On the other hand, I couldn't exactly waltz into her apartment complex with my dick hanging out, and there was no way I was going to be able to get my jeans closed over it.  I was so hard, it hurt.

Before I could say anything to  her about my dilemma, she had turned onto her stomach and went to work on me with her mouth in earnest: Hard, fast, and dirty.

 

I swear I felt that orgasm in every single part of me.  I’ve had plenty of great ones, but no one had ever done what she did to me, keeping me on edge for so long.  When it hit, everything else went away, and there was nothing but this insanely intense pleasure, spreading through my body, whiting out my brain. 

It seemed to go on for days.

I must have tensed up while it was happening, because when I came out of it, my calves and feet ached like they’d been cramping.  I had to have yelled or something, too, because my jaw was sore and my throat felt raw.  

 

When my brain turned back on I found out that my head was tipped back against the seat and I had my eyes closed.  I realized that I was still in her mouth, and my hand was resting on the back of her head.  Not pushing her down or anything, just there.  I stroked her hair, loving how silky it felt, and she sat up.  The sensation as her mouth slid along my softening cock set off sparks behind my eyes, and I heard myself groan.

Then her mouth was on mine, and I tasted my own cum there, mixed with the sweet taste of whatever she’d had before me.  Toothpaste, maybe, or mouthwash.

When she pulled back, palm hot on my cheek, I forced my eyes open.  “Holy shit.”

She was smiling.  “Ready for round two?”

I remember thinking, “This is probably going to kill me,” but seriously?  What better way to die, right?

 

All I remember about getting into her apartment was being really glad that it was on the ground floor.  My legs felt heavy and weak, and stairs would have been a serious challenge.

She was stripping my clothes off as soon as she got her door closed.  It was tough to keep up,  what with my bones feeling like they’d melted, but I got her naked, too.

I should’ve worn a condom, but hell, I’d done riskier things, and do I need to mention again that my brain wasn’t working well at that point?

 

When I lifted her onto her counter, she squealed, wrapping her legs around me, hands all over my back and chest and shoulders, moaning something about how strong I was.

I trapped her head between a cupboard and my forehead, needing to see her face while I entered her so I could make sure I wasn’t hurting her.  Her pupils were blown and her mouth was open, breath hot and fast against my chin, and she looked as far from 'in pain' as you can get.

She was so much tighter than I expected that it punched the wind out of me.  I had to stop not even halfway in, closing my eyes and fighting back another orgasm.

She flexed around me and I almost lost it.  I held her hips, telling her, “Don’t.  I’m trying not to cum.”

 When I opened my eyes, hers were closed, lower lip caught in her teeth.  I started moving again, slow and careful, because I already owed her one orgasm, and there was no way I was gonna let that become two.

 I kissed her while I worked my way into her, keeping a death grip on her hip with one hand and holding the back of her head still with the other.  When I was all the way in, I leaned my head on hers for a minute, just breathing while I got my brain to focus totally on her.  As soon as I thought I could move without blowing my load, I went back to building her orgasm.  I ground against her, slow and strong, using my mouth on her neck and ear, reading every cue she was giving me.  

I had to keep one hand on her hip, but the other?  That one got to know her in every way possible.  Found out that fingernails run down her side made her shiver and  moan.  That cupping her breast, taking its weight, didn’t do much for her, but running my thumb over her nipple did.  Licking my fingers and stroking that nub like it was a tiny dick had her tensing up.  Pinching and rolling it got her digging into my back and trying to move her pelvis.  When my mouth took over, she whispered my name, and when I bit down, her fingers tangled in the hair at the back of my head and her whole body shook.  

I wet my fingers, sliding them down to her clit, pressing and rolling it while my teeth went back to her nipple.  Her nails scraped down my back and she started begging me to move.

It was tough keeping myself in check, but I kept my mind on her, on figuring out what angle she needed, what pace, how hard she wanted me driving into her.

I could feel it building in her, and then I shifted a little, getting the angle just right.

I felt the change in  her and looked up.  Her eyes were wide, and so was her mouth.  I heard her say, “Oh my god.  What is that?”  

This was the best part, my favorite part.  I lifted my head, wanting to watch her, driving hard into that magic spot.  The second time I hit it, she gasped, eyes closing, and the third time, she made this high pitched, rolling sound.  Her body went limp, except for the internal muscles contracting around me, milking me, and I couldn’t hold back anymore.

It rocked through us both, the pleasure so intense I couldn’t see, lost track of everything around me, like getting electrocuted but in a good way.  

Pretty soon we were both limp and panting, and I took her to the floor with me because there was no way I could keep holding both of us up.

She lay on top of me, breathing hard but otherwise feeling like she'd turned boneless.  I was still inside her, ‘cause I never go soft quickly, and every time I moved even a little, she’d moan and shudder, tightening around me again.  

It was intense.

It was also freakin’ cold, laying naked on a tile floor with sweat drying on my body.

I talked her into holding onto my neck, and somehow I managed to stand up, carrying her with me.  She got her legs around me, and I found my way to her bedroom.

I tugged her blankets down one-handed and got her settled on her back.  I cuddled with her -- there was no way I was gonna leave while I still owed her for the blow job -- until we were both warm.

 

“I’ve never felt that before,” was the first thing she said when her brain came back from whatever orgasm-land it had flown off to.  “What did you do?”

“Found your g-spot.”

“My god.  I thought that was a myth!”

I moved between her legs, propping myself up on my elbows.  “Myths are kind of my thing.”

She made a happy sound in her throat when I slid my tongue into her mouth.  I moved onto her neck, and she sighed against my ear.  “You are a lively one.”

I chuckled.  Pushing back up, wanting to see her expression, I said, “I still owe you for the car.”

Her eyes widened.  “Oh!”

“If I do this right, you should be able to get anyone to hit that spot whenever you want them to.”

And I went to my next favorite thing after watching a woman cum: using my mouth on her clit and my fingers on her g-spot until she falls apart, usually after a lot of moaning, gasping, and hair-pulling.  Mine, not hers.

I can guarantee, as many times as they squeal my name before I’m done, they sure as hell never forget it.

This one was no different.  I used my lips and tongue to get her warmed up, wet and even more swollen than she already was.  I held myself up on my left hand, using my spit to lube the first two fingers of my right.  “You ready?  You gotta pay attention so you can teach this to the next guy -- or chic -- that comes along.”

Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, chest already heaving, but she nodded.

I slid those two fingers into her, closing my eyes at the heat and soft pressure, swallowing  hard.  I opened them again to watch her face as I pressed against her wall, curling my fingers like I was trying to strum her clit from the inside.

When her body gave an involuntary jerk and she gasped, I eased off the pressure with my fingers.  I dropped my mouth to her clit, flicking it with my tongue, feeling her buck like I’d zapped her with a taser.  When her breathing and scrabbling fingers told me she was close, I sucked that little nub between my lips, trapping it so I could use the tip of my tongue harder and faster.

At the same time, I pressed up into that spot that had made her jerk and moan before, stroking it with the same speed and force I was using on her clit.

If I thought her first orgasm was intense, it was nothing compared to this one.  Her back arched off the bed, her legs started shaking, and she literally screamed my name.  Her pelvis bucked and jumped under me, but I held on, feeling her pussy contract around my fingers, not changing anything I was doing until that stopped.

She went from arching towards the ceiling to curling towards me.  I stopped moving my fingers but didn’t change the pressure.  Knowing she was probably hyper-sensitive at that point, I let up on her clit, too.

She was shuddering, and every time she breathed out, there was a little whine with it.

I rocked my fingers and she curled in tighter, crying out, but she dug her nails into my head and pulled me in tighter.  I started licking her from where my fingers entered to the top of her cleft, running my tongue over her clit every time, using it flat instead of tormenting her with the tip.  At the same time, I rocked my fingers inside of her.

“Dean!  Oo-oh, Dean!”  Her knees were drawn up, belly pressed to my forehead, and her fingernails were digging furrows in to my scalp.  This time when she came her cry was deep and guttural, sounding almost painful, and instead of melting, her whole body shuddered over and over again, wrapping around my face.

I’d known it was coming, and had been smart enough to draw in a big breath when it started, experience telling me she’d likely grind her pelvis into me so hard that I wouldn’t be able to breath until she was done.

I stopped moving when she did, and she dropped back onto the mattress, throwing an arm over her eyes.  I wiped the lower half of my face with my hand, removing the slick of my spit and her cum.

Her entire body was vibrating.  I lay down beside her, sliding an arm under her and tugging her until she rolled, head on my chest, one arm and one leg draped over me.  I pulled the blankets up over her shoulders and closed my eyes.

And yeah, I was feeling pretty proud of myself, but also enjoying that warm, tingly feeling I always get in my groin after a really good orgasm.

 

We’d come to the point where I either had to leave or things would get awkward, so when she stopped twitching and her arm moved, I thought she was getting ready to excuse herself to go clean up -- my cue to duck out.

Instead she slid her palm down my belly and said, “We're not done yet.  I’ve had three to your two.”

And since I was still hard from gettin’ her off again, I didn’t object when she slid over me, impaled herself on my cock, and started riding me.

 

It was fairly slow and easy at first, and watching her watch me was hot as hell.  I slid my hands up her stomach, enjoying the softness of it, then slid my palms over her ribs.  Her eyes closed and she moaned when I began twisting her nipples. I sat up enough to cup her shoulder blades, pulling her down to me so I could use my mouth on her gorgeous, full breasts.

She picked up the pace, and I dug my heels into the mattress so I could help her, thrusting up into her.

It didn't take long before I was so freakin’ close I couldn’t focus on what I was supposed to be doing with my mouth, and I just held on, arms under hers, curling over her back to grip her shoulders, forcing her body down as my hips jerked up.  My forehead was pressed into her chest and I was barely breathing.

“You’re going to make me cum again, you bastard!” She panted that into my ear, and I lost it.

She was right behind me.

 

It seemed to take a long time for me to be able to move again.

I started thinking about getting back to Sam.

“You’re trying to figure out how to leave without insulting me, aren’t you?”

I smiled into her hair.  “Actually, I was trying to decide whether I should ask you to marry me.  I don’t have a ring or anything.”

She laughed, and since I was still inside her, it sent shockwaves crashing through me.

“Something tells me you aren’t the marrying type, Dean Winchester.  But any time you are in town, you damned well better let me know.”

I tightened my arms around her, wishing that what she said about me wasn’t true.  “If anyone could convert me to domestic life, it’d be you.”  I kissed the top of her head.

She squirmed until she could slide off of me.  I turned on my side, and we faced each other.  She traced a finger down my cheek.  “Seriously:  I’ve been a dancer long enough to know a runner when I see one.  You’ve got that aura of 'I-don't-do-commitments' and ‘I’m-never-in-one-place-for-long’.”  Her fingers slid through the hair at my temple, and I shivered at the tingling it caused.  “This has been the most amazing experience of my life, though, and I mean it when I say I want to hear from you the next time you’re in town.”

I closed my eyes, sighing again.  

She was right, but I really didn’t want to go.

She leaned up and kissed me, and it was long, and slow, and deep, and good.

 

I left her there, warm and soft and all alone in her big bed. 

I got a cab to take me back to the hotel.  

Back to Sam.


	3. Transported: Dean's POV

 

* * *

 

I opened the door with slightly more stealth than I would have if I'd been staggering in drunk at three in the morning, rather than just feeling weak because I was fucked out.  I was hoping not to disturb Sam.  Not that it wouldn't have been fun to brag, but the kid had been on edge ever since he found out about the deal I made, and he needed his sleep.

Of course my eyes moved to Sam’s bed as soon as the door opened enough to allow it.

A winged black monster was straddling my brother's prone form, and I felt snarl tear out of my throat as I launched myself at the damned thing, not even taking the time to pull a weapon.

 _This better not be a freakin' ghost!_   I needed to hit a solid form, or at least disrupt this one enough to buy Sam some time to get off the bed.

My shoulder slammed into something cold and firm, and I heard myself roar.  I wrapped my arms around it, driving us both toward the floor. 

My plan for pulling my boot knife and driving it through the thing's chest got lost in the white-hot spike that shot through my skull as the monster opened its mouth and screamed.

 

* * *

 

The first thing I felt was cold.  Not just a slight chill, either.  This was a bone-deep type of cold that left me aching.

The second was the sharp pain behind me eyes that told me I had a concussion.  

I held still, controlling my breathing, listening hard.  Wherever I was, it was dark.  Completely, utterly devoid of light, the blackness as penetrating as the cold.

I felt the ground on the skin of my bare back, and was immediately annoyed at the lack of clothing.  What I felt beneath me was hard, cool, slightly rough, and too even to be anything but man-made.  

Since I hadn't heard anything, I took a chance and twitched one finger, rubbing it along the surface I was lying on.

 _Concrete_.

I noticed the smell of dampness and wet soil that I had always associated with an unfinished basement.  

Straining into the blankness, I tried to hear something, _anything_ , holding my breath until my heart was beating so hard it would have drowned out any other noise. 

From what I could tell, I was alone.  I had no idea what had happened to Sam, but I figured there was a good chance that the thing I'd tackled had brought me here, hopefully leaving Sam behind.

My hand came up inches from my face, but I couldn't see it.  I touched my eyes, needing to confirm that they were really open.

Darkness wasn't new to me, but this complete absence of sight was...well, it was a little unnerving.

I dropped my hand to my chest, sliding it down my bare torso to confirm that although my belt was still there, the knife hidden in the buckle was gone. 

_At least they left my pants on._

Since it hadn't hurt to lay on my back, I knew my pistol wasn't tucked  into the waistband of my jeans anymore.

Moving slowly, I inched my hand down my leg, listening hard to see if anything noticed what I was doing.

Ankle holster and boot knife: gone.  So were my boots and socks.

 _Fuck_.

Since nothing had responded to my movements so far, I took a chance, reaching up to check the head space, then moving carefully to a seated position.  I waited, but still, nothing changed, so I stood, arms out to each side, and turned carefully.  Finding only empty space sent a rush of fear through me.  Being trapped in a small space sucks, but having no idea how far it is to a wall, or where the floor ends, is at least as bad.

No matter how terrifying, though, I had to explore the space.  I kept my hands out in front of me, sliding over the rough floor one foot at a time, testing the stability of the surface beneath me before shifting my weight onto it, and repeating the whole thing.

It was tedious as hell.

My heart was beating pretty hard before my fingers brushed against something solid. I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath until if huffed out, startling me.  I spread my hands, pressing first my palms, then my forehead to the cool wall, feeling dizzy.  When it passed, I stretched up, straining until I touched the juncture of wall to ceiling.  Then I started an extremely thorough search of the cinder block wall, running my fingers from top to bottom before sliding over and repeating the process.

Every time I started getting bored, I thought about Sammy, hopefully all alone back at the motel, but still...He shouldn't be alone, and I didn't know for sure that he was safe.  I needed to find a way out, to get back to him.

 

By the time I reached the first corner, my fingertips were raw.

Well before the second juncture, they were bleeding.

I forced my mind to remain on task, refusing to panic.  Something had gotten me in here, so there must be a way out.  I would find it. Find it, and get back to Sam.

 

* * *

 

I slid to the floor, calves and thighs burning.  

Finding nothing on the walls, no seam or door or window or vent, I had moved onto the ceiling, which meant that I'd been standing on tiptoe for a very long time.

My legs felt like they were on fire.

I hadn't found anything, but couldn't be one hundred percent certain that I hadn't missed something.  I mean, my freaking fingertips were so worn down, they were practically numb.  Still, if there had been something as obvious as a door or window, I was sure I would have felt it.

I closed my eyes, battling exhaustion.  I inhaled slowly and deeply, then exhaled the same way.  After five of those breaths, I felt rejuvenated enough to start exploring the damned the floor.

 

* * *

  
I pressed myself into a corner, trying to beat back despair with logic.   _Concrete room with no windows or doors.  It’s gotta be supernatural.  Or I’m dreaming.  Either way, if there’s a way in, there has to be a way out.  Hopefully I just need to wake the fuck up._

I touched my eyelids briefly, confirming that they were closed, leaving a thin sheet of blood coating each one.  Not being able to see anything would be hysteria-inducing if I let it.  

So would the thought of being confined in a concrete box for the rest of my life.

A completely empty, fully sealed concrete box.

I concentrated on keeping each breath slow and even.  On relaxing each muscle, one at a time, until I felt heavy and boneless.  On allowing my exhaustion to remove me from the cold burn of panic that had started growing in my chest.

The cold water hit me with such force that I didn’t realize it was only water until I started to choke on it.  The thick, solid stream had pinned me to the wall, and it felt a lot like getting body-slammed by a ghost.  I rolled to the side, trying to get out of the stream, and it followed me, driving the wind out of me.

When I couldn't get away from it, I tried to move towards it, figuring I could find where it came from and maybe get out the way it was coming in.

The spray cut off just as I touched the wall.  I searched the spot I thought it had been coming from, positive that there had to be some sort of opening or crack or _something_.

There was nothing but smooth, unblemished cinder block.

_It has to open somewhere._

Now I was so freaking cold that I was shuddering constantly, teeth chattering.  I was still exhausted, still wanted to lay down and rest, but couldn't stop myself from feeling the whole wall again, floor to ceiling, corner to corner.

My breath was rasping too loudly in my ears as I moved on to the second wall.

_Gotta be something here.  Gotta be._

The shaking in my hands was from more than cold as I completed the last wall.

 

I tried to convince myself that I wasn't panicking, but I could not force myself to sit down until I had traced every millimeter of the ceiling, then the floor.  One. More. time.

 

* * *

 

 

Every time that exhaustion threatened to claim me, that damned torrential spray returned.  Each time, I fought my way to the wall, trying to find the spot that it came from, teeth clenched against the abrasion of the needling liquid on raw skin, against the bruising force of a stream so thick that it felt solid.

And each time I felt compelled to revisit every square inch of that damned room.

But each time, I was weaker.

The last time the spray came, I couldn't move.

Slumped in a corner, the deluge returned, crushing me into the concrete behind me, pushing my arms and legs around.  I choked when it hit my face, too exhausted to even turn my head.

The onslaught ended in an unexpected mercy as a voice rose over the ringing in my ears.

“Dean?”

 

I had found Sam.

  
  
  
  



	4. Transported: Sam's POV

“Sammy?”

“Jesus, Dean!  What happened to you?”  I pulled myself to my feet, failing to stifle a groan.

“Sam --” Dean coughed harshly, fingers of the hand closest to me scrabbling weakly at the slick floor.

“‘M okay.  Just dizzy.”  Relying on the wall to keep me up, I staggered over to my brother, dropping to my knees beside him.

He flinched away from me.

“‘S okay, Dean.  ‘S just me.” I reached out to lay my palm on his shoulder, intending to reassure him, and ended up hissing in a shocked breath instead.  “Jesus, Dean!  Your skin is like ice!”

“Been c-cold,” he admitted, blinking hard.

“You’re laying in a pool of water.  Let’s go to the other side of the room, get you dried off and warmed up.”

He closed his eyes.  I watched his too rapid respirations, felt him shuddering under my hand.  

“Can’t m-move,” he rasped, hard on the heels of another deep cough.  “T-too tired.”

“Well I don’t want to drag you and I can’t carry you.  You’re gonna have to at least help.”

He moaned, rolling his face away from me. “Jus’ l-lemme s-sleep, jus’ a lil’ b-bit.  Th-then move.”

I tugged on one flaccid arm, ducking low to wrap it around my shoulders.  “You’re about to freeze to death.  We’ll dry you off, then you can sleep, okay?”

He groaned, head rolling against mine.  A drop of ice water dripped from his hair to run down the neck of my shirt, and I shuddered.   _He’s got to be hypothermic by now._

I half-carried, half-dragged my brother as far as I could from the dampness he’d been lounging in, nearly falling to the dry floor myself as I attempted to lower him to it.  When I had him on his back, I shrugged out of my shirts, drying his torso and hair with my undershirt before propping him up to force his long limbs into the sleeves of my flannel.

“C’mon, Dean!  This is like dressing an infant.  A two hundred freaking _pound_ infant.  Help me out, here!”

“D-don’ w-weigh...two h-hun --” a wet cough shook him, and he groaned.

I pulled the shirt closed without buttoning it and reached for his belt buckle.

“Wha’ you d-doin’?”  His face turned towards me, brow creased, eyes squinted shut.

“Jesus, Dean, your lips are purple.  I mean, _literally_ purple.  How cold are you?”

I dropped my ear to his chest, worried that he was cyanotic from more than just hypothermia.

“P-pre’y f-fuckin’ col’, S-s’mmy.”

Not detecting any unusual noises when he breathed, I went back to divesting him of his wet clothing.

“Th’ f-fuck, S-sam?”

“Your body temperature is dangerously low, Dean.  It’s called hypothermia.”  I bit the inside  of my cheek, annoyed with myself for losing patience with him.  In a less sarcastic tone I added, “I need to get you warmed up.”

I spread his sopping jeans and boxers out hastily, wondering how long it would take them to dry in this environment, before once again applying my t-shirt to the task of drying him.  I rubbed up and down each leg briskly, then pressed the shirt to his groin against his weak but heartfelt protests.

“Sorry, man, but you stay wet, you die.”  I spread my damp shirt out beside Dean’s saturated belongings, then shimmied out of my own pants.  “You can kill me for this later,” I offered.  Then I lay down, shivering at the touch of chill concrete against my back, and pulled Dean on top of me.  I spread the open flannel to ensure that his skin was in direct contact with mine, tangling my legs with his, trying to cover his lower half with my jeans.

“S’mmy,” he began, struggling weakly, “w-wha’ the f-fuck!”

I shuddered, pulling him tightly against me.  “God, Dean, you are freezing!”  He had ceased his pathetic attempts at pushing me away and was now a dead weight on my chest, tremors racking his frame repeatedly.

“C-c-cold,” he stammered out.

I wrapped my arms around his back, holding him against me tightly.  “You’ll be warm pretty soon, Dean, and then you can tell me what the hell is going on.  Okay?”

“Mm k-kay.”

I pulled my t-shirt over to us and draped it over our heads, trapping the warmth of breath close to our skin, then concentrated on forcing warmth into my brother’s frigid limbs.

“How’d you g-get here?”  

“I don’t know,” I answered, running my palms over his back briskly, using friction to generate heat.  

“W-what do you r-remember?”

I shrugged.  “Feeling like I couldn’t breathe.  You  throwing yourself at me.  Waking up and seeing you soaking wet, laying in a puddle on the floor.”

“Y-you saw me?”

I felt my brow furrow.  “Yeah.”

“B-but it’s black in here.  D-darker than a h-hooker’s heart, S-sammy.”

My brows shot up.  “No it’s not!  It’s actually too bright, you ask me.  Fluorescent lights on whitish walls.”

“I d-didn’t find any lights.”

“Well,” and I scanned around, confirming what I’d already learned, “I don’t see the fixtures, but trust me, it is bright as fuck in here.”  I gazed at the ceiling over my head.  “What do you mean, you didn’t find any lights?”

“I -ffelt around the whole r-room.  Walls, ceiling, floor.  Couldn’t f-find any way out, or anything that wasn’t j-just concrete.”  

I pulled one of his hands up, shaking my head at the condition of his fingertips.  “Jesus, Dean.”

He tugged his hand away.  “I needed to f-find you.  Wasn’t sure that thing was d-done with you.”

“Hey.”  I jerked my shoulder, bouncing his head on my chest.  “Let me see your eyes.”

“They’re fine.  It’s not like they h-hurt or anything.”

“I just want to look at them, okay?  Please?”

He  huffed out a sigh before tilting his head back, staring up at me.

His irises were completely black.

Without thinking, I reached up, running the pad of my thumb along the ridge of bone under his left eye.  He flinched away.  “It’s just me, Dean.  Your eyes...they’re black.”

He gripped my wrist, something swirled in those abnormal eyes, and both thoughts and images flooded my brain.  Black-eyed demons, yellow-eyed demons, mangled bodies, screaming, the smell of blood, hot viscous fluid on my skin.

I tucked his face against my shoulder.  “You’re not a demon, Dean. It’s not that kind of black.  More like….like your pupils are so wide that there’s no iris left.”

“But I’m b-blind.”  He was doing a good job of hiding the terror he was feeling, but I’d seen it when I looked into his eyes.

“Yeah, but I’m sure it’s only temporary.  A spell or something.”

He grunted, and I felt it in my own chest.  “We’ll figure this out, Dean.  We always do.”

He rolled off of me.  “Where’re my c-clothes?”  He was patting the floor, searching.

“They’re probably still wet.  Take my jeans.”  I pushed them towards him until they touched his hand.

“Ew!  Wear your dirty pants?  N-no thanks.”  He pushed them away.  “Just gimme mine.   They’ll d-dry off eventually.”

“You’re still cold, Dean.”

“I’m fine, Sam.  P-pants!  Now!”

I sighed.  “You’re such an ass.”  But I snagged his clothes for him, throwing them at him.

They hit him in the face, and he flipped me off.  “Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

I watched him as his fingers explored his boxers, turning them right-side out, then orienting them correctly.  He slid his feet into them, then reclined on his back to jerk them up over his hips.  The way he planted his feet and lifted his pelvis caused every muscle in his body to tense, stomach flattening.

He was beautiful.

“You better not be watching me, perv.”  

“What?”  I sat up.  “I’m looking for a way out, Dean.  Geez.”

“Put your damned pants on first.  Never know when something’s gonna come at us again.”

“Good point.”  I retrieved my own clothes, continuing to watch him as I re-dressed myself.

He was sitting up.  He bent his knee to force his bare foot into the leg of his jeans, the long muscle on top of his thigh clearly defined.  I regretted having forced my flannel shirt on him, left with nothing but the memory of how he looked, hunched and bare.  The thick ridge of his latissimus dorsi, the triangular repetition of his intercostal muscles, the firm curve of his pectorals.

I stood to pull denim over my hips, squeezing my erection to alleviate the ache before tucking it into my jeans.

“Hey, my t-shirt is already dry!”  I had snagged it from the floor.  I reached out, running my hand over Dean’s denim-clad thigh.

Predictably, he jerked away, hissing, “Hands to yourself, pervert!”

“Your stuff is dry, too.  So reality is twisted here.”

“You just now figuring that out, Einstein?  The fact that we’re in a c-concrete freakin’ box with no way in or out of it wasn’t enough of a clue?”

Helplessness  had never brought out the best in Dean, but I had to admit that he had a point.  “It is pretty frustrating.”  I moved to the closest wall, leaning in close, pressing on it.

“What’re you doing?”  His voice was gruff, a sure sign that he was feeling nervous.

“Just checking out the walls.  I know you already did, but I haven’t, and besides, like you said, this place isn’t normal.  It could change any time.  I just want to see if something new  has popped up.”

He had started moving as soon as I began to answer him, following my voice.  His hands were out, and I reached for him, gripping his fingers.  He used that to pull himself in until his other hand found the wall.   “You check this part out already?”  He gestured at the lower half of the section in front of us.

“Yeah. Nothing there.”

“Good.”  He turned his back to it, lowering himself to the floor.  “I’m gonna take a nap then.  Wake me up if you find anything.”

 


	5. WENDIGO: SAM'S POV

* * *

 

I had just squatted down to examine what I thought might be a crack in one corner of the room when I heard a low, “Sam” from my brother.

The all too familiar warning hiss caused the hair on the back of my neck to rise.  I pivoted slowly, still in a crouch, surveying the room as I turned.

Dean was on his feet but low, stance solid and balanced, hands spread.  Sightless eyes flicked habitually in an otherwise still frame.  His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, exhaling inaudibly through a slightly open mouth.

“What is it?” I whispered.

He held up one finger, turning his head, listening intently to something I couldn’t hear.

“Not sure,” he whispered back.  “I smell a Wendigo, but I don’t hear anything.”

I scanned the room again, pulling air in through my nose as Dean had.  “I don’t smell anything.”

He lifted a finger to his lips, warning me to be silent just as an invisible force seemed to land on top of him, knocking him to the ground.

“Dean!”  I shot toward him, stopping, horrified, as my brother disappeared.

I turned a circle, calling his name frantically, hearing and seeing nothing.  A determined test of the walls came next, and I pushed, kicked, and slammed my shoulder into each, growing more frightened and desperate with each second that I remained alone in that sterile room.

A short cry startled me, and I backed into a corner, dropping into a fighting stance as I turned.

Dean hung by his arms from the ceiling, his bare and dirty feet suspended six inches from the ground.  His shirt was gone.  Blood coated the left side of his torso, soaking to his jeans.  His chin rested against his chest, obscuring my view of his eyes.

I couldn't see what bound him.

 

I held my breath, listening, waiting.

 

The only movement was Dean’s slow rotation and the leisurely motion of the fat crimson drops falling  from a cut near his right eyebrow to decorate the pristine floor.

The room was small, and I reached him in two strides, then stood, afraid to touch him, having no idea how to release him from his invisible bonds.

“Dean,” I called gently, dipping my knees to lower my body so I could look up into his face.

I pulled my shirt off, dabbing gently at the blood by his temple.  He moaned softly.  “S’m?”

“Yeah.  I’m here.  What got you?”  _Where did you go?  How badly are you injured?_ I wanted to know it all, but I'd been in a similar position often enough to know that one question at a time was all  he'd be able to handle.

“Wendigo,” he whispered.  A shudder worked through him.  “Ate a piece of me.  Made me watch.”

Tears pricked my eyelids.  “Jesus, Dean.  Where?”

“Ribs,” he grunted.

I pressed my shirt over the bloodiest spot, and he hissed in pain.  “Sorry, sorry.  I gotta get the bleeding stopped.”

He grunted again.  “Goo’ luck.  Took a rib.”

“What?”  My skin went clammy.

“Jus’ th’ las’ one.  Not gonna kill me.  Bleed like hell, though.”

I kept pressure against the spot, grappling with the mix of  horror, disbelief, and rage that washed over me.

Dean raised his head, eyes wide and black.  “Still can’t see, Sam.”

“I...I know.  I’m sorry.”

He gave an irritated shake of his head, like a bull trying to rid itself of a horsefly.  “Quit sayin’ that.  ‘S not your fault.”

 _Yes it is.  I summoned that thing that you jumped back in the motel room._ But I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.  Not yet.

He tipped his head back, flexing his shoulders.  “Can you get me down?”

“I don’t know.  I can’t see what’s holding you.”  I removed my hands slowly from the improvised bandage, letting go entirely once it became clear that the cloth was glued into place by my brother’s clotting blood.

I reached up, feeling his wrists, then the space between his hands and the ceiling.  Though I could feel the indentations that rope would have made, I could not feel the rope itself, nor any sort of hook in the ceiling.  

Taking a chance, I bent my knees again, wrapping my arms around Dean’s thighs where they met his hips.

“What the  hell, Sam?” came his predictable response.  "Quit grabbin' my ass."

Ignoring him, I explained: “I can’t see or feel anything, but I’m going to try this anyway.  Can’t hurt.”  I straightened my knees, lifting.  

Dean cried out, lurching sideways as his arms dropped unexpectedly.

I set him down, keeping my right hand on his hip, sliding my left to his armpit, steadying him.

His knees buckled and he fell against me, face plastered to my chest.

“Son of a bitch.”  The expletive came out in a pained growl.

I held him, waiting to see if I needed to lower him to the ground or let him remain on his feet.  Broken ribs typically felt better stretched rather than hunched; I had no idea how missing ribs felt.

His breathing was deep but fast, and one hand had curled around my right wrist, gripping it tightly enough to make the bones ache.

The amount of weight I supported diminished gradually as his breathing normalized. There was no way to measure time in that featureless space, but after what felt like a remarkably short period, given what he’d been through, Dean released his grip on my wrist, sliding his  hand up my torso to pat my cheek.  “Thanks, Sammy.”

He straightened, leaning away from me.  Reaching behind him, he felt for the wall, shuffling until he was patting it.  He rested the seat of his jeans against it.  Turning his head, he launched a mouthful of blood-colored fluid into a corner before turning his face in my general direction.  “Sammy?”

“Right here.”  I moved to lean against the wall beside him, and he slid over until our shoulders were touching.

“That was seven kinds of hell,” he muttered.

“What happened?  One minute you were telling me you smelled a Wendigo, and the next you were just... gone.”

He lowered his chin, started to shake his head, then stopped, wincing.  He raised his hand to his temple, fingertips ghosting over the laceration there.  “I dunno.  Knocked me out, woke up dangling from the ceiling.”

“You said it made you watch.  Could you tell where you were?”  I didn’t want to make him relive that, but I thought if he could describe what was around him, it might prove useful.

He shrugged his right shoulder.  “Just typical ‘Digo digs.”  He smirked, and I chuckled a little, knowing my answering smile wouldn’t be seen.  “Cave, not much light, sand floor. Smelled like decomp.  Hot in there; I was sweatin’ like a bitch.”  He frowned, but apparently that was all he the detail he could recall. “Nothing special.”  He raised his left hand to rest it against the shirt sticking to his side, and grimaced.

“How did you get out?”

“I didn’t know I had until you called my name and I figured out I was blind again.”

I closed my eyes, grateful that he couldn’t see my face, sparing me the effort of trying to hide my despair.  “Dean --”

 

A white light accompanied a blinding pain drove through my skull like a lightning bolt.  I pressed the heels of my palms into my temples, sure that I was screaming, unable to hear it.

And suddenly I was on my back in what had the feel of a roach-trap of a motel room, a winged black creature on my pelvis, pinning me to the bed.  It leaned in close, breath a mix of rotten eggs and decomposing flesh.  Black eyes somehow glowed, and I watched in paralyzed horror as dark, viscous fluid dripped from between jagged teeth to fall on my chest. I heard the sizzle and smelled bacon frying just before the burn set in.  

 

I couldn’t even scream.

 

A ragged black nail traced along the side of my face, leaving a line of fire that ran from my temple to the corner of my lip.  Images swirled in a dizzying cloud through my brain, all of them featuring me with Dean in various stages of undress and a variety of incestuous poses. As the scenes progressed, playing behind my eyes like my own multi-screen triple-X movie theater, Dean transformed from bloody and battered to whole and vigorous.

 

 _“Hhhhheeeeaaaallllll  hhhhiiiiiiimmmmmm.”_  The fetid words writhed into my brain.

 

Lightning lanced through my skull a second time, and I was back in the white room, covered in sweat, chest heaving.

 


	6. WENDIGO: DEAN’S POV

* * *

 

I could feel myself turning slowly, shoulders screaming like they were being torn from their sockets.   _Strung up again._

My side was on fire, a sharp, burning agony that was worse than any broken ribs I could remember.   _Think somebody shot me._

I tried to look, but everything was black.

“Dean.” I heard Sam's mother-hen voice, the one I always pretended to get pissed off about when it was directed at me, and I tried to turn toward him, or at least lift my head, but nothing happened.

Soft cloth pressed against my temple, and it stung. “S’m?”   _God, my voice is_ wrecked _._

“Yeah.  I’m here.  What got you?”

“Wendigo.”  It had come back to me in a rush:  dangling like this, those creepy long limbs and Edward Scissorhands fingers, breathing rot and sulfur into my face while it sliced into me, salivating like a fucking Hellhound.  “Ate a piece of me.  Made me watch.”

Sam’s voice sounded like he was fighting back tears.   “Jesus, Dean.  Where?”

“Lef’ side.” _Not a bullet wound._  I remembered now.

Something pressed against it, and pain that I already would have labeled an eight jacked up to a ten.

I must have made a sound or flinched away or something, because Sammy started apologizing:  “Sorry, sorry.  I gotta get the bleeding stopped.”

I tried to chuckle, wanting to make him feel better, but a grunt was all I could manage.   “Goo’ luck.  Took a rib.”

It had cut me open first, peeling the skin back, then leaned down, and before I realized what the son of a bitch was up to, it was biting through the bone and I was heaving my guts out, either from the pain or the nightmare-inducing sound of my fucking bone being crushed in the thing's teeth.

I probably screamed, but I was too far gone to hear myself.

Even the memory made my gorge rise, and I swallowed hard, fighting it back.

“ _What_?”  Sammy sounded as nauseous as I felt.

I pulled my head back into the here-and-now.  “Jus’ th’ las’ one.  Not gonna kill me.  Prob’ly bleed like hell, though.”  Sam would get the bleeding under control, I was sure of that, but this blackness...it scared the shit out of me.  “Still can’t see, Sam.”

“I...I know.  I’m sorry.”

 _Why does he always do that?_  “Quit sayin’ that.  ‘S not your fault.”

He didn’t answer, and I wished like hell I could see his face, figure out what he was thinking, what he needed to hear from me.

I tipped my head back, tried to move my shoulders.  “Can you get me down?”

“I don’t know.  I can’t see what’s holding you.” I felt him groping around, fingers sliding over the skin on my wrists, and then he was, like, _hugging_ me, his ape arms wrapped around my ass and his chest crushing my dick.

“What the  hell, Sam?  Quit grabbin’ my ass!”

“I can’t see or feel anything, but I’m going to try this anyway.  Can’t hurt.”  

He picked me up, and all of a sudden my arms dropped, and I was sure my shoulders had to be dislocated, because agony shot through them all the way down to my fingertips, bounced back the way it had come, then spiked through my torso and into my hips.

At the same time, my body canted to the left, and it was like that fucking Wendigo was chewing on me all over again.

And maybe I _didn’t_ scream the first time, because this couldn’t  have been as bad as that had been, and I couldn’t fucking _breath_.

_Can’t believe that didn’t knock me the fuck out._

I felt my feet touch the floor, and realized in a drunk-but-not kind of way that Sam still had his enormous paws on me, one in my armpit, the other on my hip.

My legs weren’t ready, though, and my face smashed up against the hard plane of his chest, pulling my cheek and lip up as my body slid down a little.

“Son of a bitch.”  I would’ve given my left nut for a fifth of whiskey and a handful of Vicodin right about then.  

 

I kind of faded in and out, not really sure what was going on, too out of it to pull any of my usual tricks to talk myself out of feeling pain.

 

After a while the hot agony cooled a little, and I realized that I was drooling onto my brother’s chest.  I pulled away, licking my lips, tasting his sweat.   “Thanks, Sammy.”

I reached back, finding the wall so I could lean against it.  My mouth tasted metallic, and I spit to clear it.  “Sammy?”

“Right here.”

His body heat reached me before his shoulder touched mine.  “That was seven kinds of hell.”  Which was true, but I hadn’t meant to say it out loud.  

“What happened?  One minute you were telling me you smelled a Wendigo, and the next you were just...gone.”

I shook my head a little, then stopped, biting back a hiss of pain.   _Concussion.  Again._  I reached up, feeling a dull ache and what was probably crusted blood over my right temple.  My fingers confirmed that there was a cut right along my hairline.  “I dunno.  Knocked me out, woke up dangling from the ceiling.”

“You said it made you watch.  Could you tell where you were?”   

I thought about it.  “Just typical ‘Digo digs.” _Ha!_ I could just picture Sammy’s bitch face.   _I don’t know why he has such a hard time admitting how freakin’ hilarious I am._   “Cave, not much light, sandy floor. Smelled like decomp.  Hot in there; I was sweatin’ like a bitch.”  I sorted through the memory, but couldn’t come up with anything else. “Nothing special.”   

“How did you get out?”

“I didn’t know I had until you called my name and I figured out I was blind again.”

“Dean --”

 

And then hands grabbed me, tearing me away.  

“ _Sam_!”  

I was terrified that whatever it was would get him, too.  I thrashed, twisting, adrenaline running so hot I didn’t even feel what it was doing to my shoulders and my side, but the things had claws, and they were strong, and there was at least one hand on each arm and leg. I heard myself roar, all rage and frustration, but they carried me off like I was nothing more than a carnival prize.

My back slammed down onto the hard floor, and something cold and heavy dropped onto my chest, driving the air from my lungs.  Claws dug into my thighs just above my knees, and I started to panic.  

 

_hands circle my ankles like talons and they pull and I fight and something tears in my leg  and there is weight on my thighs and I struggle and the men hold tighter and I feel the pressure against my ass and I know what’s coming and I’m not ready, I don’t want this, and my mind screams and I try to fight and the man above me pulls harder on the shirt he made into a gag, using it for leverage while he slams  his hips forward, forcing his dick past my clenched asshole_

 

“No!”  I tried to bite the thing that was laying on me, but somehow couldn’t find anything to sink my teeth into.

And then there was a horrible, freaking _agonizing_ burning, and I could smell it, hear flesh sizzling, knew that they’d set me on fire, right where the Wendigo bit me, and I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, it was bad, so _fucking_ bad, and all there was in my world was this shrieking agony and my own screams.

 

And just as suddenly, it was all over, and I was laying there in Sam’s arms, _exhausted_ , with tears drying on my face.

But Sam was there, my heroic baby brother, rocking me and telling me that he knew how to fix it.

  
  
  



	7. CONSENT: SAM'S POV

* * *

 

“No, Sam!”

“Dean, c’mon --”

“‘C’mon’ what?  She -- it -- whatever -- claims the only way I’ll survive this is if you and I have sex, and you --”  He broke off, running a hand through his hair, the gesture so familiar, so _Dean_ , that it made something in my chest ache.  “I can’t believe you’re even considering this.”

He sounded completely wrung out.

“I’m going to sit next to you, okay?”

He grunted.

I slid down the wall, shuffling closer to him as I sat until we were touching from shoulder to outstretched thigh.  “Why wouldn’t I?”  I began my argument softly.  “Why wouldn’t I consider _anything_ to save you?”

He didn’t respond.

“You’re going to _Hell_ to save _me_ , Dean.”

I felt him shudder.

“That...what it's saying…” He shifted, biting his lower lip.  “That’s like...it’s forcing us….”  He cleared his throat.  “That’s _rape_ , Sammy.”

He was so tense he was vibrating.

“Dean --”

“No!”  There was still some strength in him, despite everything.  “I won’t _rape_ you, Sam!”

He turned away, curling in on himself, temple and one shoulder pressed into the wall.

I tipped my head back, blowing out a sigh.  “It doesn’t have to be violent.”  

He didn’t answer.

“Dean.”  I rested my palm against his shoulder.  His skin was icy.  “Hey.  C’mon, man.  Look at me.”

“I can’t see, asshole.”

I shifted around until I was in front of him.  Moving my hand from his shoulder to his chin, I tilted his face up. “Open your eyes, Dean.”

“No.”  He sounded like a petulant toddler.  

“Please?”

He huffed out a sigh.  “How do those damned puppy dog eyes work when I can’t even see them?”  

But he did as I asked.

 

_he’s on the mattress, and there is a man on each arm, and Jeff is sitting on his pelvis, pinning him down with his hips._

_And Jeff bunches Dean’s shirt in his hands, from hem to neck, and he pulls it up and forces it between Dean’ teeth_

 

_There are hands, so many hands, holding him and stroking him and pinching him and scratching him,_

_and he tries to fight but he can’t, someone is devouring him, soft-moist-sucking warmth,_

_and his back arches as he groans, and it shouldn’t feel so good, he can’t remember why but it shouldn’t,_

 

_and they turn him over_

 

_he arches his back, bucks his hips, desperate to escape, and a cruel hand jerks his head back_

_through the blur of tears and lash-shuttered eyes he sees Jeff kneeling on one of his bare arms and Jeff’s face is feral,_

_and he struggles and the men hold tighter and he panics_

_and the man above him pulls harder on the bridle of Dean’s gag while he thrusts forward victoriously_

 

_And Dean screams, the sound desperate and wild even through thick cloth_

 

I swallowed back bile, wanting to ask him if that was a memory or something else, but hesitant to reveal that I could read his thoughts.  If he knew that, he’d never open his eyes for me again.

I stroked his cheek bones with my thumbs.

He jerked away, irritated.  “No chic flick moments, Samantha.”

I scrubbed my face with both hands.  “Look, let me just...I don’t know...jerk you off or something.  Maybe that will be enough for her.  It.”

He exploded to his feet, voice the booming growl that had caused more than one monster to hesitate in mid-attack.  “No, goddammit!   _I’m_ going to Hell, but that doesn’t mean _you_ have to, Sam!”

I felt my mouth drop open.  “What are you talking about?  Why would I --”

“Because it’s wrong, you moron!  We’re brothers, for Christ’s sake!  Or have you forgotten that?”

“So, let me get this straight: now all of a sudden you believe in the concept of Heaven and Hell?”

He turned away from me to pace, hand dragging along the wall.  “Yes!  No!  I don’t know!”

“You believe that people who commit incest go to Hell?  That they _deserve_ to go to Hell?”

He had reached the corner and turned, stalking back towards me, his face a mask of confusion.  “I don’t know.  Maybe.   _We_ would.”

“Huh.  So our actions determine whether we go to Heaven or Hell?  I thought you didn’t believe in things like angels, and God.”

He stopped, somehow knowing that he was close to me.  Pained confusion twisted his features.  “I _don’t_ believe in God or angels.  Not even sure I believe in Heaven.”

“So who judges our actions and decides that we deserve to rot in Hell?”

“I dunno, Sam.”  He turned away to lean his forehead against the wall, exhaustion overwhelming frustration.

“You chose to trade your soul to bring me back to life.  Do you deserve to go to Hell for that?”

He rocked his head from side to side against the wall.  “I don’t know.”  His voice was soft.

“Killing people, hurting them: I can see how someone would deserve Hell for that.  But sacrificing your life to save someone else?  That should send you to _Heaven_ , Dean, not Hell.”

He pressed the heels of his hands into his temples.  “That’s not what this is about, Sammy.  It’s about me _raping_ you to save my life.  And that ain’t right.”

I sighed.  “Dean…”  I couldn’t decide if it would help or hurt to tell him that I _wanted_ to touch him, to taste him, to feel him come apart in my hands.  “How about if _I_ rape _you_ to save your life?  Would that be okay with you?  Because I’m okay with it.  It won’t traumatize me, I swear.”

He rolled until his back was against the wall before sliding down it, coming to rest with his knees bent, head resting on them.  “It’ll traumatize _me_ , Sam.”  

I could barely discern his whispered confession.  

I lowered myself to the floor, then shuffled closer to him, not touching, but letting him share my heat.  “Why?  I know how much you like sex.  Why would this traumatize you?”

He turned towards me, and I fell into those black eyes, seeing again the images of him held down, men’s hands and mouths all over him, and I was living his sense of horror as his body betrayed him.  

His humiliation.  

His shame.

And on the heels of that came _this_ moment, right now: longing, disgust, self-recrimination, and hopelessness, all teetering on the brink of resignation, held back by a cold glow of panic.

I closed my eyes, unshed tears a pressing burn on the lids.

_I’ll have to blindfold him.  I won’t be able to do this if I see that in his eyes._

“Intent means a lot, Dean.  If I intended to hurt you, or embarrass you, that would be wrong.  But I just want to _save_ you, like you’ve saved me over and over again.  We’re in this mess because of _me_.  You’re going to Hell because of _me_.”  I swallowed audibly, and he reached out, fingers bumping clumsily against my cheek.  “You don’t deserve that, or _any_ of this.  Please let me do something to --” I turned away, back of my hand pressing with bruising force to my lips, determined not to let him know how close I was to crying.

“Sam --”

“I can’t stand to watch what this thing is doing to you, Dean. _That’s_ what’s traumatizing me.  I want to make it stop, get us both _out_ of here.  Can’t you just let me do that?   _Please_?”

My desperation echoed in our barren prison.

He rested his head back against the wall, chin raised, and let out his breath in a long, shuddering sigh.  

“Okay, Sammy.  Okay.”

 


	8. ATONEMENT: DEAN'S POV

* * *

 

**SAM (Excerpted from the first chapter/prologue)**

 

_My palms curled over the sharp jut of his hips as I pulled him into me, swallowing his engorged heat down to the root, and his startled cry was so sharp, it might have been pained._

_I pulled back, releasing him.  “Imagine that I am someone else, Dean....Whoever you love, whoever you dream about.”  I wrapped my mouth around him, driving deep, pulling back hard; once, then again._

_He thrust into me, “O-ooh, God!”  stuttering from his full lips._

_“Please, just let me give you this.  For me.”_

_Knowing he_ could _never,_ would _never deny me, I devoured him.  Ferocious in my need to atone, I bruised my lips against the fingers I had wrapped around the base of his cock, desperate to pull his pain and his shame out of him, as if I could suck the blackness away like drawing venom from a wound, allow light and love and bliss to explode out from his core and expand, filling him._

_Every held breath, every involuntary groan, the trembling in his abdomen, the curl of his body towards me or arch away, every perceptible indication of pleasure struck like a lash along my core, the electric ecstasy of it goading me on.  My free hand slid between his thighs, and I moaned to find his testicles pulled tight against his shaft, his moment of perfect bliss so close --_

_“Sammy!”  His breathless euphoria lanced through me, my own echoing rapture so immediate, intense, and unexpected that it momentarily blinded me._

_His fingers curled into my hair, the tight grip sending a shiver of pleasure down my spine that grounded me, pulling me back to our reality, to Dean holding me tightly as he jerked helplessly against me, exploding into my throat, nearly convulsing with the force of it._

_He slid down the wall, limbs shaking, and I went with him as far as I could before allowing him to pull from my mouth with a wet pop.  I slid my arms around him, holding him as his body tensed, shuddering, breath locked in exquisite aftershocks of delectation; then fell limp with air panting in and out of his lungs, only to repeat the process seconds later._

_Eventually his tremors ceased and he molded himself to me,  skin cooling slowly, reminding me absurdly of the Impala’s powerful engine ticking contentedly after a run down an open highway._

_I held him, rocking us gently._

_His respirations finally settled, breaths deep and even, and I suspected that he had fallen asleep.  I burrowed into thick hair redolent with exertion, inhaling the scent of him, startling badly when his low chuckle vibrated through me._

_“Dean?”_

_“Jesus, Sam."  His exhale was a blissed-out hum.  "That was incredible.”  He reached up to tug the blindfold down before nuzzling back into my neck.  “If I hadn’t been blind before, I sure would be now." He shivered, one stray aftershock sparking through him.  "Damn, that was intense.”_

_I smiled, fingertips turning lazy circles against the intoxicating curve of his hip just to feel the skin there pebble with goose-flesh at my touch.  “Who did you think about?”_

_He pushed himself up with obvious difficulty._

_His eyes were green fire, igniting my soul._

_“You, Sammy.  No one but you.”_

  


* * *

 

**DEAN**

 

I could see him.

It felt like I’d been in the dark for days -- other than when the fucking Wendigo  had me -- and like it had been _years_ since I’d seen Sam.

 _God, I’ve missed you._  But I  couldn’t say it.

And his face.  Man, the dude looked so wrecked.  Pain and love and fear and hope, all bleeding out of him.

_So beautiful._

Next thing I knew, I was pressing my mouth to his, my heart slamming around in my chest while I waited to see what he’d do.  I mean, sure, he just blew me, but that’s because he thought he had to in order to save my life.  This...I don’t know _what_ this was.  What I felt, it was so...big.  I could feel it pressing on my sternum, bringing tears to my eyes, and it had to go somewhere.  

I just couldn’t keep it all in anymore.  It was too much to hold.

There’d never been anyone in the world that I loved or needed as much as Sammy.  Not even my dad.  I’d give anything for my little brother, do _any_ thing to make him happy, to keep him safe.

But I couldn’t say it.  Every time I tried, that pressure choked the words off, trapping them in my chest, adding to the hugeness of it all.

Sam moaned, parting his lips.

My tongue slid into him at the same time that tears spilled out of my eyes.  I pushed myself up, curling a hand into that long, soft hair, holding him still while I attacked his mouth with my tongue, licking the groans from his throat.

_God, I love you so much, Sammy.  Please don’t ever leave me._

I couldn’t get close enough.  I squirmed over until I was straddling him with a knee on each side of his hips.  My palms cupped his skull, fingers twining into his hair.  My grip tightened, pulling him into me, and he moaned into my mouth.

I felt one of his enormous hands curl around the back of my head, the other hot against my shoulder blade. He started fighting back, tongue grappling with mine.

_Closer, Sammy.  Please.  I need more._

I didn’t even realize my dick was hard until I pressed my body against him, electric tingles shooting up my spine when my cock met the unyielding wall of his sculpted abs.

He bucked up into me, hands shifting to my ass, drawing me in tighter.

“Sam...please.”

He pulled away, but I couldn’t meet his eyes.  “What, Dean?  What do you need?” 

A sob twisted in my chest.  “I just…”  

 

The words still wouldn’t come.

 

But my mouth has always had a mind of its own, and I was on him, tasting him, hands and lips and tongue on his neck, sucking the soft skin over his collar bone, palms sculpting the impressive bulk of his shoulders and biceps while I wore my lips raw against the scant but coarse hair that had sprouted on his chest.

I slid over, sucking and licking his nipple, pinching it between my teeth.  He gasped, fingernails digging into my scalp.

I moved back up to his mouth, cupping his face in both hands.  “You’re wrong, Sam. You’re beautiful, and touching you _does_ turn me on.”

His soul was reaching for me through his eyes.  “Dean.”  His voice sounded choked, and mine was so rough I barely recognized it.

“I know, Sammy.  I know.”  I took  his mouth again, ravenous.

He melted into me.  I could feel him trembling.

I pulled away, moving one knee so I was no longer pinning him to the wall.  “Lay down.”

“Dean?”

“I want to show you.”

He licked his lips, and his throat worked as he swallowed.  “You don’t...you don’t have to.”

 

The thing in my chest -- that pressure -- contracted into a small, cold ache.

 

I closed my eyes, biting my lip.  “I _do_ , Sammy. I can't... I can't say it. I have to _show_   you...Please, Sammy.   _Please_.”

 

And then he moved, lying back, giving himself to me, and the pressure expanded, huge and hot and _yearning_.

 

He stretched out, that long, lanky body spread like a banquet, and I heard myself moan.  He had no idea how many times I’d stared, when he was just in a t-shirt or better: shirtless.  He was enormous, muscles stretching cotton or rippling under his skin, and I was jealous, something I’d never admit to, but I was also fascinated by it, wanting to touch him, feel the heat and the firmness and the raw masculine perfection that was Sam.  

 

And now he was there, right in front of me, with nothing to stop me from taking my fill.

 

I started at the top and worked my way down, fingertips drifting over his torso to enjoy the smooth velvet of his skin; palms flattening to memorize the shape and texture of his flesh; mouth following last, tasting him, sucking groans and stuttered breaths from him that shot straight to my groin.

My tongue found the coarse trail leading down below his belt, and I teased it with my mouth while my hands went to work getting his damned pants off.  I could feel his abdomen jump and flex as my tongue slid lower, tasting skin as soon as I bared it.

I moved to kneel between his thighs, fingers digging into him as I curled them into the denim that I was suddenly insanely frustrated with.  He lifted his hips and I yanked his jeans and boxers down, so hungry for him that my mouth was watering.

His cock popped free, huge and hard, the tip slimy, and I just swallowed him as deep as I could, too frantic with need to take the time to tease him first.

He curled into me on a shout, gripping the sides of my head, and salty bitterness coated the back of my throat.  

I wrapped one fist around his shaft.  My other hand went to his balls, and I was drooling so much that my spit soaked into his pubes and coated his scrotum.  I held still on his cock to concentrate on his sac, stroking and pinching and squeezing in all the ways that I loved when I was the one in Sam’s position.

 

His thighs were already trembling when I let my mouth move, taking him down until my stomach convulsed, sucking hard as I pulled back up, tongue stretched out along the underside of his shaft.  My fist followed my lips, twisting around his cock as it came up, my mouth never completely leaving him, tongue pressing hard over his head, dipping into his slit before I slammed back down onto him with my mouth and my hand as far as I could before sucking my way back to the top again, then starting over, making myself gag every time.

I didn’t swallow, just let the spit and pre-cum coat him, lubricating my hands as they stroked and twisted his shaft and balls, pumping hard and fast and savage until I felt his nuts crawl up the base of his cock, knew he was close, and I needed this, wanted this so badly I was nearly crazed with it.

“God!  Dean!”

He was shaking, all of him, his hands, his belly, his thighs, and then his breathy cries stopped, air locked in his chest, his entire body straining as he exploded down my throat.

 

And that huge thing in my chest, that pressure, it just took over everything, and all I knew was that I loved my little brother so fucking much, and there was nothing that could compare to this, nothing better in the whole entire _universe_ , and I wanted it to go on and  on and never stop.

 

If there was a heaven, this was it:  my beautiful, soulful, amazing brother, coming apart underneath me.

 

He bucked and shouted, arching his back, pushing his cock even deeper down my throat, and I held on, sucking and milking him until he collapsed, one hand pressing hard on the back of my head, the other gripping my wrist.  

I held still, feeling the tremors rock through him.

 

_I would die a million agonizing deaths for you, Sam._

 

He eventually relaxed, cock softening, but I couldn’t get myself to stop touching him.  He was slick and smooth in my mouth, and I did all the things I probably should have done to build him up before sucking the hell out of him: licked the underside of  his shaft, teased the tip of his cock with point of my tongue, sucked one of his nuts into my mouth and squeezed it carefully.  I ran my lips over his pubes, loving how rough that was compared to the velvety smoothness of his now flaccid dick.

I felt him chuckle and looked up through my eyelashes, tongue buried in the crease between his balls and his thigh, drowning in the scent of his jizz and the flavor of his sweat.

“Enjoying yourself?”

I lifted my head just enough to grin at him.  “ _Hell_ yeah.  You?”

He carded his fingers through my hair.  “God, I love you.”

 

“I love you, too, Sammy.”

 

The words had finally come.

  



	9. REALITY BITES: SAM'S POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are gonna hate me for this....

* * *

  


I jerked awake to the odd sensation of having fallen...up.  It caused the same reflexive, full-body spasm that any falling dream does, and the movement was strong enough to rock the bed.

Christy turned to me, sleepy-eyed, and snuggled onto my shoulder, wrapping her body around my side.  “You okay, Sam?”

The remnants of the dream lingered.  I rubbed my hand over my face.  “Yeah. Just...you know.  Dream.”

Her palm stuttered over my abdominal muscles until it bumped against my erection, finding the still-damp stickiness coating my groin.  “Not a nightmare, then, I take it.”  She wrapped her fingers around my shaft, and I smiled.

“Not exactly….”

 

* * *

 

I waited until she left, then called Bobby.

“Sam.”

“Hey, Bobby.  Long time.”

His silence carried both censure and forgiveness.

“I...uh…”

“What can I do for ya, son?”  The tenderness in his tone wasn’t something the grizzled old hunter typically expressed, and I felt my throat close.

I cleared my throat.  “I’ve...I’ve been having...dreams.”

He waited a beat.  “Oo-kay.  Glad you’re gettin’ some sleep, at least.”

I shook my head.  “Sorry.  Dreams...about Dean.  But they don’t feel like regular dreams, Bobby.  They feel more like...like visions.”

“Oh.”  From that one syllable I knew that he’d taken a seat at his desk, focus entirely on me.

My head dropped to my chest.  “I don’t even know what I want, what I’m trying to say.”

“Well...how about if you tell me about one of the dreams?  Then maybe we’ll figure it out.”

“There’ve been different ones.”

“Always Dean, though?”

“Yeah.  Always Dean.” _Injured Dean.  Naked, panting, straining Dean._

 

Christy had taken care of me before she left, but I felt my cock swelling again.

 

“Are you in the dreams, too?”

 _Dean’s dick in my mouth, or his hand and mouth attacking my cock_.  “Usually, yeah.”

“But I take not in situations you’ve lived through.  You're sure this isn’t just your subconscious goin’ back and reliving shit ‘cause you miss your brother?”

 _Damn, I wish.  Is this why he’s_ really _in Hell?  I wanted him like this, got myself off thinking about this, and  he made a deal to send his soul to Hell for me...but if mine hadn’t been tainted, would that deal have even been possible? If my soul had been Heaven-bound, could he have made the trade?_

My  hand came up, tracing the linear scab running down my face.  I rested my elbow on my knee.  “I...the latest dream…there was a monster pinning me to a bed.  It scraped a claw down the side of my face.  This morning I’ve got a shallow cut there.”  I was having trouble controlling my breathing.  

 

I had wanted to practice.  Tried to summon a demon, just to see if I could kill it, thinking it might be easier if it wasn’t wearing someone like a shield.  I thought the summoning had failed, but what if it didn't?  What if I hadn't just dreamt that part?

 

No way I could tell Bobby that.

 

“Jesus, Sam!  Describe the monster.”  Knowing Bobby, he’d be poised with a paper and pencil to take down my words with his right hand while his left hovered over a short stack of books, ready to start searching for answers.

I closed my eyes to concentrate on examining the details of my dream.  “It was humanoid.  Thin. Black.  Had wings.  It smelled like sulfur and necrosis.  Claws.”  I touched the raw patch on my chest.  “Spit on my skin left a burn.”

I wasn’t sure if I was actually  hearing his pencil scratch across paper, or my mind had manufactured it out of the certainty that he was, indeed, writing furiously.

“Male?  Female?”

I closed my eyes, calling up an image of the thing.  “Ummm….not sure.  Maybe neither.”

“Huh.”  This time the muffled ‘thump’ and distinct sound of pages ruffling were unmistakable.  “Anything else?  Was it wearing clothes?  Make any noises?  What color were the wings and eyes?  Was it rotting?  Missing body parts?  Have a tail?”

My brain was struggling to keep up with the rapid-fire questioning.  “No clothes, wings and eyes were black, no missing body parts that I’m aware of, smelled like rot but I didn’t see exposed bones or flesh hanging off of it.  What else did you ask?”

“Noise.  Did it talk?  Scream? Growl?”

“Talked, sort of.  More like hissed.  And there was a piercing...something.  Not sure it was a noise.  I felt it more than heard it, right before I first saw the thing, then again before I woke up with it gone.”

“Wha’ did it say?”

I closed my eyes.  “‘ _Heal him_.’”

“Heal….did it mean Dean?  Heal _Dean_?”

“Yeah.  I mean, I think so.”

 

The silence stretched between us.

 

“This...I don’t think we can just shrug this off, Sam. I mean, most likely it’s nuthin’, just your brain wantin’ your brother back, but on the other hand…”  He was quiet, and I waited through his thought processes.  “Was there more to that dream?  Or can you tell me about some others?”

I cleared my throat.   _Can't tell you_   _all of it._  “Um...The most recent, besides that one, Dean and I were in a room, like a concrete cell.  No windows, no door, no furniture.  Bright, but no light fixtures.  And Dean --”  Images flooded me, and I shuffled through them, trying to find one I could share.

 

_Shirtless, barefoot, and wet, jeans hanging off his hips, looking sexy as hell._

_Arching up, every  muscle on display as he slid his boxers over his hips._

_Again shirtless and barefoot, blindfolded, hands behind his back, trusting me._

 

“He kept getting… I don’t know.  Hurt.  Thrown around, clawed, strung up from the ceiling once.  In the dream Dean said it was a Wendigo, but I could never see what was doing it.”

“Was it the same thing that pinned you to the bed?”

I searched my memory.  “Could have been the same thing, I guess, but I couldn’t say for sure.”

“So what makes you think the one with the two of you in the room was more than just a dream?”

A breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding escaped on a long, nasal exhale.   _Because I want it to be._  I tipped my head back, eyes closed, thinking.  “I don’t know,” I finally offered.  “I guess...it just felt so _real_ , and I experienced things that I know I’ve never...I mean, can your mind just make up sights and sounds and tastes and smells like that?”

“Hmm...I dunno, Sam.  Can you give me some examples?”

 

_The taste of my brother’s cum.  The way he trembled over and over again when he was coming down off an orgasm.  His engorged cock, deep red, shining with my saliva, inches from my face.  Green eyes looking up at me, mouth full of my cock._

 

“Ah...I don’t know.  The  room, I guess, wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen.  Cinderblock walls, concrete floor and ceiling, all a pristine white.  Dean’s blood would show up so bright it didn’t even look real, then it’d be gone.”  I was paging through the memories, trying to find anything I could share.  “He had injuries I’d never seen before.  He was missing all of the skin on his fingertips, and he had some cuts so deep that I could see bone.”

“That’s  never happened on a hunt?”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t the one to clean them or stitch him up.  I never saw the bone like that, white showing for a second or two until the blood filled back in.”

“So far you’re not tellin’ me anything that I don’t think your brain could piece together from similar memories.  You said you smelled and tasted, too.  That seems a little off.  Don’t recall as I’ve ever done anything other than see, feel, and hear in my dreams.”

“Yeah…”

“So….”

 

_Salted bitterness filling my throat, the intoxicating scent of it when I opened his jeans…_

 

“I can’t remember now.  But it felt so real.”

The creak of Bobby’s ancient desk chair carried across the miles.  I could picture him leaning back, lifting his cap by the bill, running his hand over his head, then settling the cap back in place.  “Maybe part of him, part of his soul, is still close.  He wa’n’t -- isn’t -- evil, so maybe, deal or no deal, they couldn’t drag _all_ of him down to Hell.”

The thought both warmed and chilled me.  “Maybe…”   _He was good, so good, how could his soul go to Hell, no matter what deal he made?_

“I tell you what: I’ll look into it a bit and let you know what I find, alright?”

“Thanks, Bobby.”  

_I just really need him back._

  
  
  



	10. REALITY BITES: DEAN'S POV

* * *

 

 

“So, did you enjoy your day off, Dean?  Because I certainly did.”  

There was no mistaking that sibilant growl, and the finger that trailed down the side of my face was way too familiar, as well.

“Alastair.  You fuck.”

Spread-eagle, nude, manacles digging into my wrists and ankles.

“Now, is that any way to talk to me?” His hand drifted lower, sharp nails teasing one of my nipples.  “And after I was so nice to you.”

_I was on the rack that whole time._ Just another one of Alastair's famous mind-fucks.

I closed my eyes, not wanting him to see the tears that were filling them.  

“You enjoyed the stripper, didn’t you, Dean?”  He leaned in close, breath fanning my ear while his fingers wormed their way down my belly.  “The time with your little brother?”  He gripped my cock, and it felt like frozen bones curling around my shaft as he pressed his body up against mine.  “It could be like that every day,” he whispered.  My skin crawled where his lips brushed my neck.  “All you have to do is say that one. little. word.”

“I'll do better than that: I'll say two.  _Fuck_. _You_.”

He morphed into the stripper, and now the hand stroking my cock was warm and soft, the breath smelled sweet, and firm breasts were flattened against my chest.  Her tongue traced the line of my jaw, and I reminded myself that this was Alastair, or one of his minions, maybe.

But why fight it? How often did I get to feel something _good_ in Hell?

So I let my dick get hard, and she dropped to her knees, and despite the change in scenery, her mouth was no less talented than it had been the first time Alastair let her have me.

She had one hand curled around the base of my cock, the other stroking my balls, and I relaxed into it with a groan.

“ _This_ , every day.  Is that a ‘yes’, Dean?”

 

All I’d have to do was torture other souls.  Carve them up, make them scream.

 

“No.”  I tensed when I said it, expecting the woman to turn back into a demon, or maybe a Hellhound, and rip my dick off with her teeth.

Instead the feeling changed, became hotter, wetter, the movements more rapid and deep.  

I opened my eyes.

 

Sam knelt at my feet, those soft brown eyes staring up at me like I was a god, my cock disappearing down his muscular throat.

 

I felt the jolt in my groin, and my fingers flexed, wanting to tangle in his soft girl-hair, stroke through it, pull him up so I could bury my tongue in his mouth, then tell him how much I loved him.

“How about _this_ , then?”  Not-Sam worked my cock like a pro while Alastair’s whisper scalded my ear.  “Sammy, every day for eternity.  All I’ll ask for is _one_ soul, Dean.  You start one soul in the morning, and you don’t even have to finish it.”  His fingernails scraped along the skin of my ass, and despite my hatred for the son of a bitch, I trembled.  “Give me, say, one hour out of every twenty-four, and the rest can be with Sam, doing whatever your little heart desires.”

 

I wanted to say ‘yes’. _No more getting skinned.  No more body parts cut, torn, or bitten off.  No more having my belly sliced open and rats or snakes or spiders or fire pressed inside._

_No more of the hallucinations and mind-fucking like they’d done to me today._

_No more of the other head games they’d played with me, like seeing Sammy on the rack, begging Alastair not to hurt him even though I knew it wasn’t really Sam, couldn’t really be Sam._

 

_But what if I said ‘yes’, and Alastair brought the real Sam to me?  What if my weakness landed my brother in Hell, brought here to fulfill Alastair’s end of the bargain?_  I couldn’t live with that.

 

_ << “You think a blow job is worth more than your brother’s life?”>> _My father had asked me that.  Seemed like a long time ago.

 

Every day I thought about that.  Worried about it.  They knew Sam was my weakness.  Knew if they gave me a choice between torturing souls and watching my brother be torn apart, that I’d be off this rack in a heartbeat.  Every time they slapped Sammy’s face on some demon scum, I almost broke.

 

I'd been down here for so long, he might even be in Heaven by now.  Maybe that's why they hadn't brought him here,

 

But what if they could, and just hadn't quite pulled it off yet? 

 

Not Sammy.  Never Sammy.  I couldn’t risk it.

 

“Shove it up your ass, Alastair.”

 

And I was face down on a bare mattress in an old house, but this time it wasn’t Jeff and some guys I’d met playing pool holding me down, it was my father, and Bobby, and Sonny.  And if I could have looked behind me -- if the shirt that had been jammed into my mouth and fastened into a bridle wasn’t wrenching my neck back so hard it felt like my spine would snap -- I know I would have seen Alastair kneeling between my spread thighs.

 

I started screaming before he even touched me, knowing that soon I wouldn’t be able to, because he wasn’t just going to fuck me.  As excruciatingly painful and humiliating as that was, it was never enough for Alastair.  He’d rip my ass apart with his cock, hammering my guts into mush, and when he came it would be acid, or fire, and what passed for jizz from Hell's top tormentor would incinerate me from the inside out.  Or his dick would turn into a claw, or a fanged snake, and devour my guts from my ass all the way to my throat.

 

And I knew I was minutes away from inhaling my vomit, then choking on my own blood, but until then, I’d keep screaming, and it would be the same word over and over:  

 

“No.”


End file.
